


Hitch

by killallyourfriends (orphan_account)



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Drabble, F/M, No Spoilers, Post-Mockingjay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-05
Updated: 2013-10-05
Packaged: 2017-12-28 13:16:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/992422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/killallyourfriends
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Way to go, Haymitch. Way to really fuck things up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hitch

**Author's Note:**

> Post-Mockingjay (no spoilers). AU

She’s got writer’s block on her fingers and a smirk on her lips. Time has healed some of her wounds, but most of the wounds now are just imperceptible little cracks in her eggshell. I doubt that anyone else can see them but me, but maybe it’s because I’m the only person to which she reveals them.

 

She was definitely sadist material— a pacifist for a sadist, but still sadist material.

 

I still my breathing as her fingers run up the masses of scarred flesh that make up my stomach and chest. Knife fights, baking accidents, road burns. I choke on self-loathing.

 

“What do you—”

 

Her face snaps up from her invisible handiwork, her bright eyes twinkling not with pity but with pleasure that is now slowly draining away.

 

The question hangs in the dimly-lit air.

 

Choked, involuntary sob.

 

_What do you see in me?_

 

Her hands drop from my chest and she rolls off of my lap.

 

 _Nothing, apparently_.

 

I watch her silhouette drift out of the room and I lie back on the bed, acid rippling through my stomach. _Way to go, Haymitch. Way to **really** fuck things up_.

 

She’s in the threshold now, soft hallway lights illuminating her thighs. She makes her way to the bed and sits next to me. I scoot over and she kneels, poised slightly above me.

 

In her hands she holds a tiny red box. Not red like blood, or sunsets, or glitter-stained sequins. Red like forest flowers under sagging canopies with no light.

 

She drops the box into my hands; I sit up, lungs bubbling black, and I cough.

 

The top flips off and inside is a little fletching off of a children’s safety arrow.

 

A little jolt runs through my body, and the corner of my mouth sharpens.

 

She leans against me, her warm arm and shoulder pouring blood back into mine.

 

I hold her as she falls asleep crying on the floor.


End file.
